


Adjustment Period

by depizan



Series: Hands of Chance [5]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Injury Recovery, Introspection, cross faction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 04:57:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12183318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depizan/pseuds/depizan
Summary: Recovery takes time, and so does adapting to an enforced career change. Series of ficlets covering Kyrian's early days (well, more like weeks) as part of Jezari's crew.A little more angsty/serious than my usual fic, and continues to contain mentions of his healing/healed hand injury.





	1. Chapter 1

_The Wayfarer’s Luck, several weeks after his ill-advised journey to Caprida:_

Kyrian spread his right hand, willing the fingers to straighten and stretch apart normally. The effort ached across his hand and down into his wrist. He let his fingers wilt. The ache stubbornly remained.

“Damn.” He flopped back on the narrow bunk and pulled the pillow over his face. The pillow, like the mattress, was new and reasonably fluffy, but it wouldn’t silence actual yelling. He settled for muffled profanities.

In the Empire – On _any_ civilized world, damaged nerves and tendons could be replaced with cybernetics, shattered bones regrown or replaced, and recovery times measured in days. Weeks, at most. Imperial Intelligence had access to the very cutting edge of medicine and every therapy and technique to speed recovery and return an agent to the field as good as – or even better than – new.

In the galactic underworld, being treated by a surgeon who had an genuine medical degree was a minor miracle, recovery times stretched into months and involved such advanced techniques as centuries-old exercises. As good as new was more a fantasy than a likelihood.

 _I knew that. I knew what the prognosis was. I knew what my options were._ Hating them didn’t create new options. Or miracles.

He sighed and tucked the pillow under his head. There was progress. Slow, sometimes painful, but progress. He had some use of his hand back, and when he wasn’t wearing the protective brace, there was nothing to draw attention to it. So his hand was stiff, he couldn’t make a proper fist – or trust it to grip anything much heavier than a fork, and he hadn’t worked up the courage to see if he could still use a blaster. Those things would come in time.

Or they wouldn’t.

 _No._ That he wouldn’t accept. _It takes time. Patience._ He’d overdone it again, that was all. He needed to stop doing that. It wouldn’t speed his recovery or change what had happened. Neither would wallowing in self-pity.

He slipped the brace onto his hand and sat up. It would keep him from absentmindedly trying to use his hand for anything he shouldn’t, not that that was likely at present. He’d definitely overdone the exercises.


	2. Chapter 2

_A few days later:_

Fast as hyperspace travel was, the realities of cooping an assortment of people up in a metal box for days at a time – not to mention the fact that crews generally lived on their ships – meant that even small freighters had exercise facilities. The _Luck_ ’s took up a third of the secondary hold, an oddly shaped room that Kyrian suspected had once been additional crew quarters, staterooms, or even a proper exercise room.

The mat, weights, and odd assortment of punching bags seemed almost like an afterthought, half-hidden behind an open shelving unit. If Jezari hadn’t waved at it while showing him around the ship, he’d have assumed it was someone’s personal equipment rather than something intended for the whole crew.

 _Or that’s just my general sense that I’m intruding._ He couldn’t really be considered part of the crew, not until he was of some use, and Jezari had flatly refused his offer to pay for passage until then. Not that the small amount of credits he’d managed to hide in case of emergency would have been sufficient. Most of his pay had been spent on doing the exact opposite of his orders.

He sighed and gave the outsized punching bag a gentle push with his left hand. Wookiee-weight, of course. Why else would there be two of everything, one oversized.

A puzzled-sounding growl behind him made him turn. Bowdaar, presumably come to make use of the Wookiee-sized equipment.

“I’m sorry.” Kyrian stepped out of the way. “It’s all yours.”

Bowdaar rumbled something that again had the inflection of a question.

“I was just curious.” Kyrian held up his right hand, indicating the protective brace. “I can’t exactly exercise at present.” From the Wookiee’s expression, he hadn’t answered the right question. “I…?”

Bowdaar gestured for him to follow and turned toward the door.

“Of course.” _I need to find a Wookiee language program. Or a translator droid._

The main room was empty except for Corso, who was settled in one corner, doing maintenance on a rather alarming assortment of weapons. He didn’t look up from the blaster he was reassembling. Wherever Jezari and Risha were, it seemed clear that neither of them had sent Bowdaar either.

The Wookiee gestured cheerfully to the dejarik table.

“Ah,” Kyrian said. “I’m afraid I won’t be much of a challenge.” He’d always lacked the focus to be a truly good player.

Bowdaar’s grin required no translation.

“I see.” Kyrian sat down opposite him. “Well, you have been warned.”

Bowdaar chuckled and switched on the gameboard.


	3. Chapter 3

_That evening:_

Kyrian hesitated a moment then knocked on the cabin door. It opened almost immediately; the _Luck_ ’s cabins were not large.

Corso blinked at him. “Uh…”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Kyrian said. “Jezari thought you might still have a Wookiee language program.”

“Oh. Yeah, I think so. Hang on.” He turned away to rummage in the bottom of his closet.

Kyrian waited in the doorway. Corso’s cabin was tidy, but lived in. A very shiny rack of weapons stood just inside the door, armor arranged just as neatly on a stand next to the closet. Flimsies advertising farmland for sale decorated one wall, and a holocube was all that stood on the tiny pulldown desk. A datapad lay on the bunk, where Corso had presumably been lounging before his interruption.

“Here.” Corso handed him the language device. “Gave me a headache, ‘specially at first, and it takes a while, but it works.”

“Thank you.”

“The Captain’ll expect you to actually use it.”

“Yes.” Kyrian nodded. “Thank you.”

“Wait.” Corso stopped the door from sliding shut. “I…uh… I know maybe you can’t use it yet, but it doesn’t seem right you not being armed. In case something happens.” He studied his weapons for a moment, then held out a small blaster. “This is Sparky. I know she’s not very big, but she’s effective and has a real light trigger.” He lapsed into a salesman-like description of the blaster’s virtues.

“Corso, I…” His objection trailed off, unfinished. He _could_ shoot, left handed. Not with quite the accuracy he’d had right handed, but that hardly mattered now. _And the crew of a smuggling vessel should be armed._ Corso was right about that.

“Figure I could lend her to you. Until you get your own.”

“Thank you.” Kyrian accepted the offered blaster. “I know how much your weapons mean to you.”

“I got practice targets I can set up in the big hold,” Corso added. “When your hand’s better.”

“I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I have a language to learn.” Kyrian retreated before Corso could offer him any more weaponry by way of apology or awkward belated welcome to the crew.


	4. Chapter 4

_A week later:_

“Customs inspection when we land,” Risha said when he opened the door.

Kyrian took a step back to let her in. He was fairly certain his cabin was devoid of contraband, even if their cargo wasn’t.

“The Captain’s finally noticed our crew is suspiciously big,” she continued, opening his closet and flipping through his sparse wardrobe. It would have been even more sparse if she and Jezari hadn’t insisted on taking him shopping before they left Bellatine.

“Passengers?” Kyrian suggested doubtfully.

She turned to look at him. “On _this_ ship?” She shook her head. “But customs just might buy an investor checking on her investment. They’ll think we’re _connected_ , but that’s more than most customs officers want to mess with.” She held out a dark, fitted jacket. “Put this on. You’ll do as a bodyguard and personal assistant.”

He shrugged into it. “Wouldn’t Corso be-”

She snorted. “Bodyguard. Not bouncer. Look inconspicuous and subtly dangerous.” She straightened his collar. “I’m sure they taught you that in spy school.”

“That turned out so well.” But he slipped the brace off his hand and pocketed it. He could do without it for a few hours; it was more a reminder not to overdo than a necessity.

Risha’s lips quirked in a not-quite smile. “You look the part, anyway. Come on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kyrian followed her out, a pace behind like a good subordinate.


	5. Chapter 5

_Several days later:_

It had taken some persuading to convince Corso to leave the cargo bay and its makeshift firing range so that Kyrian could find out for himself, _by_ himself, how well he could still use a blaster. He was being ridiculous and melodramatic, he knew. The damage to his hand hadn’t left him with tremors or numbness or anything else that should affect his aim, just an intermittent ache and a little lingering stiffness. Everything else was in his mind.

Kyrian checked the setting of the small pistol Corso had lent him. It was in low-powered target shooting mode, as it should be. The targets Corso had set up would stop a normal bolt, and the wall behind them was reinforced, but practicing with a weapon at full power on a small starship was a bad idea, no matter how well reinforced the firing range was.

The targets displayed standard bullseyes, and the cargo hold, while a little short of a typical firing range, was adequate. Corso undoubtedly knew of full-sized firing ranges on Nar Shaddaa and other planets the _Luck_ visited regularly. And weapons shops. Everything necessary to become a proper member of the crew.

He checked the setting again, and estimated the distance to the nearest target. There were four, at set distances, clamped solidly to the floor. Corso had clearly put a lot of time and effort into setting it up. Or Jezari had.

He was stalling.

_What am I afraid of?_ It wasn’t as if he could hurt himself target shooting. His hand was healed; his recovery as complete as it was likely to get. He wouldn’t wake up one morning and find his hand restored, but neither would using it cause the bones and tendons to somehow unknit.

He took a deep breath. He couldn’t put it off any longer. There was no reason to, and it would be a waste of Corso’s time. The results would prove that nothing had really changed, or that he was out of practice, nothing more.

And he _was_ out of practice. He’d never kept up properly with shooting, or sparring. Kaliyo had been too easily bored, and, in truth, he’d preferred using his downtime for other things. He’d had enough natural talent – or unwanted field “practice” – to get by.

That was the worst case scenario – he’d have to actually work at something for the first time since training. Hardly the end of the universe. Or he’d find he still had perfectly good aim and he was making himself queasy over nothing.

He checked the blaster’s setting one last time and took aim at a middle distance target. It was an unfamiliar weapon; he could expect the first few shots to be a little off as he got a feel for the weapon. _It’s only practice. It hardly matters._

He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, and focused on nothing but the bullseye. _Only practice._ He pulled the trigger.


	6. Chapter 6

_Perhaps an hour later:_

Kyrian nearly cleared the targets before letting Corso into the hold, but the prospect of explaining – or trying to explain – why had stopped him and the results of the afternoon’s practice remained. His accuracy wasn’t that great by Imperial Intelligence standards, but it was passable. Even good, at least for the bit of time between when he adjusted to the unfamiliar blaster and his hand had started to hurt.

He couldn’t decide if he should have been relieved or disappointed.

“Feels good, don’t it!” Corso clapped him cheerfully on the shoulder. “Hey, next time we’re planetside, we gotta get you a blaster. Don’t mind lending you Sparky, but a man should have his own, you know. Somethin’ right for you.”

Kyrian nodded. He would have to figure out how to fight with his damaged hand as well. He’d put both off for too long already. It wasn’t fair to Jezari, or to the rest of the crew.

“Thought about what you want?” Corso bent to unclamp the nearest target. “A pistol? A rifle? What was that you had? Imperial model? Man, you shoot like this now, you must’ve been amazing.” His face froze. “You’ll be again soon! Just gotta have practice, and the right blaster. Back to normal in no time. Be nice to have somebody to practice with. Nothin’ like a little friendly competition.” His smile looked like it hurt.

“You don’t practice with Risha?”

“Uh, well, yeah. But, uh… _more_ competition and…stuff.”

Kyrian released the magnetic clamp on the next target. The effort did nothing for his aching hand. “Where do you store these?”

“Crate in the corner.” Corso waved at a large crate shoved up against the back wall of the hold. “The Captain thinks people might get the wrong idea if they saw ‘em.”

“I can imagine.” The target was just heavy and awkward enough he had to use both hands to carry it. _I should have quit after the first twinge_. Continuing had proven nothing, except his own foolishness.

“I bet Risha could get ahold of a rifle like you had. She’s got all kinds of connections. Course if you want a pistol, the ALT-25 is about the best there is. Like Torchy. Has a stiffer trigger, though. Something like Sparky there might be better. Or the SoroSuub line for diplomats. But you probably want somethin’ bigger.”

Kyrian leaned on the crate. The target seemed heavier than when he’d first picked it up, as if his strength had drained away while he was carrying it across the hold. It was the stale air, probably. Or his recent lack of exercise.

“Captain’s got a pair of M-300s. I know she’d let you try ‘em. Bet even Risha’d let you give her rifle a try. Custom made job she picked up somewhere, but that don’t mean you can’t get one. The Galactic Arms Annual has some great reviews and rankings. Bet we could find just what you- ”

“I’ll think about it.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. “I’m sorry, Corso. My hand hurts and…” He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about any of it.

“Oh, hey, I can clean this up. You leave that.” Corso waved at the target. “Go take something. ‘N don’t worry. It’ll get better.”

“Right.” Kyrian forced a smile. “Thank you.” He escaped into the corridor.

The air seemed clearer, less stifling than in the cargo bay. That was impossible, of course; the entire ship used the same air circulating system. He longed irrationally for a meadow, a park, sunlight, fresh air. Even with Kaliyo’s constant need for attention, he didn’t remember feeling so confined on the X-70.

Then again, he hadn’t spent most of his time in his cabin then. Much less a cabin little larger than that ship’s ‘fresher.

_What am I doing?_ Corso was right. He could shoot just fine, be an active member of the crew. Nothing had really changed.

_I expect too much._ There were no miracles, no easy answers. It was long past time he accepted that.

 

He found himself in the auxiliary cargo bay more by process of elimination than design. He hadn’t wanted to face his tiny cabin, or more of Corso’s enthusiasm for assorted weaponry. Or perhaps he’d hoped to find Bowdaar there. The Wookiee was good company, even if Kyrian still didn’t understand enough Shyriiwook to properly talk with him.

The small exercise area was unoccupied, the room quiet except for the distant hum of the _Luck’s_ hyperdrive. He’d meant to ask where they were going at lunch – or was it breakfast? – but he’d forgotten. Another job, he supposed. Some illicit good to be transported from one neutral planet to another. They’d been avoiding the Republic nearly as thoroughly as the Empire, for much the same reason.

_Fine addition to the crew I am._

Empty shelving ran along three of the irregularly shaped room’s walls. A stack of assorted shipping crates and pallets stood in the corner opposite the exercise area, reaching roughly halfway to the ceiling. The pile was strapped securely to the wall, preventing it from shifting if the gravity emulators failed. The top was perhaps half a meter above Kyrian’s head.

He scrambled awkwardly up the pile, using his right elbow instead of his hand for leverage. There was more than enough room on top to lie down. It was dusty, but peaceful. He was being ridiculous, of course. His own bunk was more comfortable, and just as quiet. He had no more privacy there than he would have had in his own cabin.

The ceiling was a dull gray, faint darker outlines indicating where something had once been attached to it, and where he suspected a wall had been removed. A smear of rust or dried grease stained the ceiling at one corner of the vanished object.

He closed his eyes and imagined a sky above him, deep blue purpling to evening, or dark with roiling clouds, stained a sickly yellow with pollution, a clear and deceptively pretty blue above endless sands. None had held any more truth than the ceiling above him now. He’d made so many mistakes, so many poor choices, all because he was too stubborn, too arrogant to listen to anyone.

He missed the soft whiff of the door opening, but not the approaching footsteps. He sat up. His perch wasn’t tall enough for him to pass unnoticed.

Jezari looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “Can I come up?” She asked.

“I… Yes?”

She grabbed the taut retaining strap and climbed up beside him. “Yik.” She wiped her hands on her knees, leaving dusty smears. “So,” she looked at him, “I guess it didn’t go so good.”

“It? Oh. No, no, it went fine. Quite well, really.” He held up his hand, hoping the stiffness didn’t show. “I should even be of some use to you.”

“Is that what’s bothering you? Your hand? Being useful?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been… I don’t know what I’ve been doing. I owe you so much, and all I’ve done is take advantage of-”

“Kyrian.” She gripped his shoulder. “Hey. You don’t owe me anything. Okay? Don’t worry about that.”

“I do owe you.”

“No, you don’t.” She shook him gently. “Seriously. You’re my friend. Nothing owed. Ever.”

He looked down at his hands. He’d folded them left over right, unconsciously protective. A bad habit he’d have to unlearn. Funny he still remembered the lessons of his training, when he’d practiced them so rarely. He laced his fingers together.

“You really don’t owe me. Kyrian? Hey.” She brushed his hair back from his face. “Talk to me.”

“I never seem to learn.” He absently rubbed the scar near the base of his thumb. “You saved my life. More than that. I should… I… I’m still not very good at facing reality.”

“What reality?”

He looked away. “Did I ever tell you I _wanted_ to be an Imperial Intelligence agent? I thought it would be exciting – travel the galaxy, help people, stop evil plots.” He sighed. “I’d seen too many holothrillers. Dashing secret agent saves the galaxy. Even when I knew better, I still tried… wanted…” He shook his head. “I thought if I just kept trying, I could make everything right.”

She put an arm around him, her hand warm on his shoulder.

“I never learned to focus on the mission. On what mattered. I still haven’t. I still find myself wanting to ask the wrong questions. I’m not sure I’ll be of any more use to you than I was to Keeper.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I… I know I’d make the same decisions. I’m not defending the Empire. Or Intelligence. I just…” _…haven’t learned._

“What are the wrong questions?”

“Ah. Who are we working for? What are we transporting? What happens if customs discovers it?”

“Yeah, those aren’t really…” She scratched at the dust on one knee. “Well… Hutts are lousy, but it’s hard to avoid them. The rest of the crime syndicates aren’t any better. I won’t haul slaves. Or anything alive. I mostly don’t haul spice. I’ve outflown customs ships. Left a few inspectors stuffed in closets. Not recently. We probably won’t run into them.”

He looked at her.

“I mean, it’s different when I’m running blockades and stuff. But we’ve been sticking to the safe jobs. Nobody’s going to get that excited about some Corellian brandy or ‘rancor’ ribs.”

“And when we take unsafe jobs?”

“I’m hoping you’ll help pick them.”

“My judgement is somewhat questionable,” he reminded her. “I don’t know that much about smuggling.”

“You know what you want to do.”

“Yes.” He wasn’t sure how much overlap there was. Blockade running, perhaps. Planets unwillingly under Imperial control. He swallowed. _Perhaps not yet._

“You okay?”

“Yes.” He tried to will the tension away. “I would prefer to avoid the Empire.”

“Nobody’s gonna argue that.” Jezari bit her lip. “You know, the SIS does some internal stuff. It’s not all tangling with the Empire. I don’t know how you feel about the Republic…”

He’d never asked exactly what her relationship with the SIS was. They trusted her with missions, paid her for her efforts – reasonably well, as far as he could tell. But she wasn’t an SIS agent. He wasn’t sure she was even a Republic citizen; there was more than a little of Hutt Space in her speech.

Yet they hired her – and her crew – as if she were an agent.

It was a terrible idea. Even considering it was absurd. He’d never spent time in the Republic, never been briefed on the sort of specifics he would have needed for a mission there. The SIS surely had a file on him. Likely with nearly as much detail as Imperial Intelligence’s.

“Wouldn’t I make that a risk?” He asked at last.

“I wasn’t planning on telling them. They’ve never asked about my crew. They’ve never really asked about me.” She shrugged. “I mean, it’d be riskier than what we’ve been doing. The gangs and syndicates can get nasty. And some of ‘em are probably supplied by the Empire. But Risha keeps muttering about credits, and it wouldn’t be worse than taking better smuggling jobs. It’s up to you.”

His hand still ached. It would take months – at least – to relearn how to fight, especially if he wanted to avoid revealing that weakness. Assuming that was possible. Any lengthy firefight, piloting certain types of speeders, even something as simple as climbing would hurt. It was sensible to make the safest choices, to avoid anything that might rely on him for some time to come.

“I haven’t learned a thing.”

“Pff,” Jezari said. “You’re doing fine. Come on, let’s see what they’ve got for us.”


End file.
